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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29391924">Pretty’s Trouble</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Persona 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adult/Minor Relations, Age Difference, Butt Plugs, Horny Teenagers, M/M, Rough Sex, Scars, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex, Sexually Aggressive Teenager</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:34:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,936</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29391924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>See the thing is, Iwai’s always had a weakness for pretty, and he’s never seen somethin’ as pretty as the kid. And there’s no way that’s gonna end well.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iwai Munehisa/Kurusu Akira</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pretty’s Trouble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two problems: the kid’s pretty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pretty is bad. Iwai has a history with pretty. Pretty’s gotten him in a lot of trouble. He tries to stay away from pretty, because once it gets too close he’s screwed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the other problem: kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Look, he knows. He knows it’s bad. He knows he’s a grown man and he shouldn’t even be looking at a high schooler. He hasn’t asked how old the kid is. It doesn’t help, doesn’t make a bit of difference, if he’s eighteen or sixteen, he’s a kid. But goddamn, he’s a fuckin’ pretty kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai’s screwed.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>The kid’s up to something. Iwai calls him that, on purpose. Hey, kid. What’s up, kid. C’mere, kid. A reminder. A constant reminder. He’s a kid, barely older than Kaoru, and he sure as hell wouldn’t want his own kid hanging around somebody like himself. Kaoru wasn’t just a kid, he was a child, and if Iwai got the slightest fuckin’ hint that somebody was sniffing around there’d be blood on the pavement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kid’s up to something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Didn’t have anything special for him to do today, but he’d shown up anyway, lookin’ pretty and ready to work. Iwai’s got him in the back, sorting some shit. The kid was good, not good enough to really get his hands on the custom shit but good enough to help. He could check out the orders, see what they needed, get the parts together, all the boring ass busywork. Because hey, if he wants to work, he’ll work. It’s important stuff, but Iwai trusts him. Besides, he can keep an eye on him easily enough. Truth is, he’s got a hard time keeping it anywhere else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The shop ain’t busy. It’s not really that kind of business, running off foot traffic. They cater to specialists, enthusiasts, the kinds of people who don’t browse. Sure, there’s the occasional curious passerby, like the kid’s excitable blond friend. There because it feels dark and exciting and dangerous, even though it’s just a store. They’re just models. They’re just pretty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai’s manning the register, which means he’s sitting with his feet propped up, half an eye on a magazine and the rest on the kid. He’s got that look, the one that’s too intense for a high schooler. The one that makes him look like he knows more than he oughta, like he’s got a secret that he’s barely even bothering to hide. It’s smart and focused and dark, and Iwai knows he’s wasting this kid on piddly bullshit, but it’s all he can do right now. He can’t get rid of him. He can’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there’s worse ways to waste your time than an eyeful of pretty, and lookin’ ain’t touchin’. And it really does make his life easier, having all that shit taken care of by somebody else. Makes it harder, too, but that’s not the kid’s fault.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mostly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid looks up, catches Iwai staring at him, and smiles. From this angle the light’s on his glasses; between that and the hair hanging over half his face it’s impossible to see his eyes. Iwai’s got an idea, though, could hazard a real solid guess that the eyes ain’t half as friendly as the smile. The kid’s got that look, intense, focused, the one that makes Iwai stay up at night until he gives up and jacks off thinking about it. The one that’s a little wild.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he’s caught Iwai with it, staring, so Iwai scoffs and says, “What, you need something else to do, kid?” He kicks his feet off the counter and leans forward in his chair. Lower center of gravity. Less exposed. Instincts, reacting to the eyes Iwai can’t see. “I’m sure I can come up with somethin’ for you to work on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It ain’t intentional, honest. He doesn’t hear himself until the words are already out there. They’re coming from his head, but his greedy fuckin’ dick intercepts, customizes, and sends ‘em out loaded with innuendo he didn’t put there. Most of the time. Sometimes it’s on purpose. Sometimes he wishes he could make the kid blush, or stammer, or flinch even a little. To remind himself that he’s still innocent, too pure and too young for dirt like Iwai to fuck up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard to think this kid’s innocent, sometimes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just taking a break,” the kid says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Is that okay?” It’s defiant, just a little. Not enough to call. Not enough to be sure Iwai’s not making shit up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Iwai leans back in his chair, props his feet up, opens his magazine, looks away. “So long as it gets done.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid stands up. And he fucking stretches, because the universe is determined to fuck up Iwai’s life. He laces those long, slender fingers (the ones Iwai’s stared at for hours, the ones Iwai wants to feel on him) together and pushes forward, straining, the tiniest hint of a groan that’s enough for Iwai to extrapolate. Then it gets even worse, as if that’s possible, because the kid stretches up and his shirt slips with the motion, exposing a strip of skin around his waist, and his back is arching and his ass is way better than it has any right to be. The kid is on display. It’s gotta be deliberate. It can’t possibly be deliberate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai’s pretty sure he hates this fucking kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid finished his stretch with a satisfied sigh, because Iwai’s life is hell. Then he heads towards the back and drops outta sight. There’s not much back there but a bathroom. Iwai’s workbench has a pretty clear view of the door, because old habits die hard, but the rest is cluttered up. Kid’s going to the bathroom. Or sneaking out the back, in which case, good riddance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai snags a lollipop. Still feels like a stupid fucking thing to do, goddamn childish, but it keeps his mouth busy suckin’ on something that it’s allowed to. Store’s quiet. Iwai’s got a radio on, just background noise, enough to drown out all the little sighs and hums of being near another person. It’s not loud, though, old habits, which means Iwai can hear pretty well anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid’s talking, quiet, just a rumble. Then his cat meows. Funny thing, sounds like it’s talking back sometimes. Weird for the kid to carry a cat around everywhere, but, hey. He’s seen weirder. And until the thing pisses on his merchandise he doesn’t really give a shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Speak of the devil, the cat comes around the corner. It hops up on the counter and stares at Iwai. The kid’s not the only one with eyes too smart for him. Cat sits, yowls, trying to tell him something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t speak cat,” Iwai mutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cat yowls again, hops off the counter, trots to the door. Paws at it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, kid,” Iwai calls, “your cat’s makin’ a break for it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He can handle himself,” the kid calls back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai chuckles, goes back to his magazine. Next time he looks, cat’s gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hope you’re right,” Iwai says, not much louder than his usual volume, “‘cause he’s outta here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry.” The kid shows up. He’s leaning against the counter, by Iwai’s feet, with a cool confidence that there’s no way he’s earned. The t-shirt’s got a deeper v-neck than Iwai’d realized, and his jeans fit too damn well. And he’s got that look again, a smile that’s almost a smirk under cold, sharp eyes that are looking at Iwai like he’s getting ready to strike. “He’s capable of a lot more than it seems.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Iwai doesn’t really trust himself to speak right now. Flirting is one thing, flirting he can pretend’s just banter, but the kid’s so close and looking right at him and Iwai’s gonna say something he really, really regrets, gonna get himself in a whole heap of trouble if he ain’t careful, so he lowers his gaze (to his crotch, those well-fitted jeans, to the curve of that sweet ass) to his magazine and stares at the words of the boring ass article. Yup, just reading, not thinking about a fucking high-schooler, no sir.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Click.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai knows clicks. Some clicks are the difference between a gun being loaded and empty, between a trigger being pulled and a misfire, and (this one, no one believes, but he knows, he can tell) between a real bullet and a blank. This click’s not a gun at all. It’s a lock. Much worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up and the kid’s walking back from the door, hands in his pockets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re still open,” Iwai says, hoping his tone comes off as annoyed. “If you really hate your cat that much you’ll hafta figure out another way to get rid of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t want to be interrupted.” The kid leans forward, rests his elbows on the glass of the counter, leaving smudges that Iwai’ll make him scrub off later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hits him that they’re alone. Really alone. Nobody’s got a key to that lock except the one currently in Iwai’s pocket. Even the faint sense of supervision’s gone, with the cat out. No chaperone. Just Iwai and the prettiest fucking kid he ever saw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai raises an eyebrow. He’s not intimidated, not in the least. Startled, maybe. This kid’s got a predator in him. That hardly makes Iwai prey. “Funny,” he says, finally closing his magazine. “Coulda sworn I ran this place.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re the boss,” the kid answers, and it makes Iwai tingle the same way it always done, the way it shouldn’t. “Hard to forget that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then you wanna explain?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really.” He circles the counter, stands in front of Iwai - no, he doesn’t. He keeps moving, swings a leg over Iwai’s thighs, sits in his lap. “Sorry for the trouble.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kiss is </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span></em><span>. The kid snatches the lollipop, grabs Iwai’s chin, pulls it up, his other hand braced against his shoulder, and smashes their lips together. It’s not a good kiss, it’s dry and awkward and too much to really be anything and Iwai’s so, so, so screwed. Because the second kiss is much better, and that’s because Iwai’s grabbed a fistfull of the kid’s shimmering black hair and is guiding him, yanking him back far enough to turn a painful smash into two pairs of lips. Iwai wouldn’t claim to be an expert, but it seems like he’s better at this than the kid, and he can use that. His tongue doesn’t thrust wildly, it explores, it tastes, it caresses and invades. His teeth bite softly, the kid’s lower lip caught between them for just a second between breaths. The hand that’s not tangled in his hair has found its way to the small of his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid’s glasses keep getting in the way, smushed up against Iwai’s nose. The kid pulls away (and Iwai lets him, he doesn’t have to, he’s got his hair, he could keep him) and in a smooth motion slides them off, tossing them aside. For the first time Iwai can see the kid’s eyes unfiltered and they’re dark and beautiful and smart and cold and burning and Iwai can’t remember why he’s not supposed to be doing this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember until he’s got one hand up under the kid’s shirt, pawing at him for whatever skin he can grab, and the kid’s finally gotta take a breath before they both pass out, and they’re panting, foreheads pressed together, and Iwai clenches his fist and the pretty kid lets a pretty sigh through his pretty lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Iwai says, and his hand stops moving. Then he lets go. The kid slides back off his lap and stares at him, hungry-eyed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Iwai repeated, letting out a long breath. He yanks his hat off so he can run a hand over his buzzcut. “Damn punk, stirring up trouble.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doesn’t have to be trouble.” Kid’s biting his lip. It’s not seductive, it’s involuntary, like he’s craving teeth on flesh and having trouble holding back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai laughed, sharp, brief. He puts his hat back on. “Go unlock the door, kid, and get back to work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid doesn’t hesitate, does as he’s told. Unlocks the door, returns to the desk. Works diligently until closing time, when Iwai tells him to scram. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Doesn’t tell him not to come back.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>What the fuck is he supposed to do?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Be responsible, that’s what. Be a fucking adult. Tell this eighteen (sixteen, you goddamn criminal) year old kid that he’s too young. That’s it. That’s a flat fucking full stop right there. No other excuses needed. Iwai didn’t get out of the goddamn yakuza to get sent to jail for fucking a </span>
  <em>
    <span>child</span></em><span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He keeps trying that tactic. He keeps thinking about how young he is. He looks at Kaoru, he looks at his son who he loves more than anyone else in the world and makes himself think, just a kid. Starts pushing his age the other way, away from justification. Kid’s sixteen, practically fourteen, barely outta puberty. Yeah. He remembers that age well enough. He had a couple men who he’d’ve thrown himself at, if he’s being honest, and he’s damn lucky none of them let him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d seen that too. It wasn’t exactly common, because that would’ve been too much, but more than a few of the guys had had girlfriends who giggled and claimed to be eighteen. They cycled out pretty quick. And he knew about what happened to some of ‘em, when they stopped being eighteen. They were lucky if they turned nineteen. Sometimes they turned fifteen instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kids. Children. To be protected, cared for, guarded. From people like those guys. From people like Iwai.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid (he had a name, but somewhere along the way a stall tactic had become a signature and now he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> kid) brings his friends, once in a while. And they’re the same age. And they’re kids too. Right at the age where they think they aren’t any more. But those other ones, the mouthy blond, that weird tall one, the brunette who looks at him like she wants to arrest him, they’re clearly and obviously wrong. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> kid is too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Goddamn him and his goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>except</span></em><span>. The kid’s a walking </span>
  <em>
    <span>except</span></em><span>. He’s too young, except he carries himself like an adult. He’s too young, except he has a hunter’s eyes and every part of Iwai believes them. He’s too young, except he’s got a maturity that comes from being wrapped up in something way outta your league and surviving.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid comes back, keeps working, and for a while Iwai thinks that’s it. He still can’t stop looking, still can’t stop thinking, but looking’s free. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shop’s quiet. Shop’s always quiet. Cat disappeared a while back, and that’s the only time the bell’s rung today. Kid’s been organizing some shit in the back, counting inventory of the sizes of some army surplus jackets. It keeps him out of Iwai’s sight but that’s fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai hears a gasp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A real pretty gasp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His blood’s already boiling before he can slap the power button on the radio. Now it’s still again, absolute silence, nothing but the hum of electricity through the lights and his own heartbeat pushing blood down to his traitorous cock, the one he can’t convince to remember that the kid’s a kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A real, real pretty moan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai’s up, out of the chair, walking back, actually hoping he’s gonna find the kid hurt. That he could deal with, if the little punk had gone and tripped or slammed his hand in the door or something. Then Iwai’d be a fucking pervert, but only he’d know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s not what he finds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid’s pretty. The kid’s real, real pretty. The kid’s in the bathroom, leaning against the wall, and the door’s swung open so Iwai can see what he’s doing and it sure as hell ain’t pissing. His head’s thrown back and his mouth is open and his pants are sagging below his unfair ass and his cock is in his hand and those fucking fingers are wrapped around it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Iwai is so, so screwed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai retreats, sits down, breathes. He doesn’t know if the kid saw him. No, he knows. Ain’t no way it wasn’t deliberate. That was no frantic messy jerkoff, trying to rub one out quick so he could stop thinking about somebody he really shouldn’t have been and concentrate. Nah, the kid was being careful with those fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai pretends he doesn’t remember what he saw. Pretends it was too quick. Pretends every fucking detail isn’t etched into his brain, isn’t gonna haunt him at night, isn’t gonna make him copy the kid’s movements and think about what it would feel like if the kid was touching him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pretends he can’t still hear him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He listens, because he can’t not. More pretty little moans, sighs, gasps, whispers. He thinks he can tell when the kid finishes because it’s quiet again, just for a second, and then there’s one last sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the toilet’s flushing and the radio’s back on and Iwai’s hard as a rock but it’s behind his magazine and he’s sucking a lollipop and desperately wishing that he weren’t desperately wishing for something else.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>It’s the cat. He won’t try anything if the cat’s there. When the cat’s around, the kid’s not getting too close or displaying himself or </span>
  <em>
    <span>tempting</span></em><span>. When the cat’s around, the kid’s good, and that makes Iwai’s life a hell of a lot easier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once he realizes this, Iwai buys a little bag of cat treats. “Here, kitty,” he says, holding one out. The kid’s in the back and the cat’s heading for the door, but it sees the treat and hops up on the counter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good kitty,” Iwai croons. He never cared much for cats but it’s not like he hates them, so he pours a couple treats out on the counter and watches it crunch down on them. When it looks up, he holds out his hand, and the cat allows him to scratch behind its ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid comes up from the back a few minutes later and the cat’s sprawled on the counter, getting scratches from two hands and, crucially, not leaving. It meows at the kid, who looks surprised, then laughs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He likes it under the chin,” he informs Iwai. “And he prefers sushi. Fatty tuna.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sushi’s a little out of my budget for a cat,” Iwai says, “but the chin I can do.” And he does, and the cat purrs, and the kid retreats, and Iwai makes it to closing time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That trick works one more time, but on the third attempt the cat sniffs at the treats and sits there, looking angry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you he preferred sashimi,” the kid says, organizing a magazine rack. Then the cat mews, and leaps to the floor, and the kid opens the door for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai hates cats.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t always get what you want,” Iwai says. You’d have to be an idiot to think he was talking about the cat. You’d have to be smarter than Iwai to know if he’s talking to himself or the kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If it’s the latter, it’s wasted. “Wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he replies, standing up with feline grace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just the way it is, kid.” Iwai chews at his lollipop fiercely to remind himself it’s there; he worries about what he might do with an unoccupied mouth. “You’ll hafta learn to accept it someday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t be too sure about that either.” Kid’s close. Not sure when that happened. Kid’s leaning over the counter, reaching out, grabbing the lollipop from between his lips and tugging it out. “I’ve found out,” he continues, and Iwai sees where this is going because it’s obvious as hell, basically a cliche, and it’s a cliche he’s desperate to see, “that it’s pretty easy to take what I want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he pops the lollipop between his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai’s not gonna be able to use lollipops as a distraction anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid </span>
  <em>
    <span>works</span>
  </em>
  <span> the fucking thing, lips pursed and glimmering, tongue extending and curling and nimble. It’s just bad luck that it’s cherry. Wouldn’t have helped, really, but this might’ve been a little milder if the kid’s tongue was getting stained blue raspberry or purple grape. As it is, it just gets redder and wetter and his teeth are so white against it, almost sharp. The red candy dyes his lips like rouge, and it’s all so fucking trite. What next, heart-shaped sunglasses and sunning by the pool in a bikini? Not that he’d mind. But no, what’s next is that the kid slips the lollipop back and crunches it between his molars, loud and sharp enough to jolt Iwai back to awareness and make it clear how utterly entranced he was. And the kid knows, because he grins, dangles the stick between his fingers, and leans forward again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> to ruin my goddamn life?” Iwai asks, because he’s hard as steel and pretty sure if the kid does one more thing he’s just gonna nut in his pants, and he’s not sure what that one more thing’s gonna be. “I got a kid,” he says, a reminder, a defense, a bad fucking move because Kaoru’s a kid. This, this thing? This ain’t a kid. He’s not sure what it is. He thinks it’s got him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that really your objection?” the (not) kid says. He looks bored. Like the concept of Iwai going to jail and leaving Kaoru with nobody is dull. “I’m starting to get the idea you’re avoiding me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, kid.” Iwai sighs, like he should. He pinches the bridge of his nose, like he should. He says, like he should, “I’m not gonna say I’m not interested, but the fact is - “</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where the holy hell did the kid learn to vault over a fucking counter? Iwai’s gonna have to ask him later. He can’t right now, because the kid’s got him again. This time, he pulls Iwai out of his chair (stronger than he looks) and slams himself against the wall, with Iwai on the outside, so somehow it’s Iwai who’s got him pinned, bracketed between his arms, kissing him fierce. Somehow Iwai’s the one with a knee between the kid’s legs and one hand holding the kid in place and pressing his whole body against him, one long hot stripe of contact. And the kid’s got one hand on the back of Iwai’s neck and the other fisted in his shirt and he’s moaning and it sounds like a song. Iwai refuses to admit that he tastes like cherries, that he’s licking the traces of candy off his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai gets a breath. “How the hell’d you do that?” he says, frowning down at the kid, genuine confusion temporarily overriding arousal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a short break, because the kid’s got those eyes fixed on him when he says, “I told you. I want something, I take it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It ain’t just because it’s illegal. Yeah, that’s bad, but it’s not really the problem. The problem is that there’s such a massive gap in their experiences. The problem is the kid’s too young to know what’s good for him and, more crucially, what’s not. The problem is a kid’s too sweet and innocent and pliable and easy to take advantage of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The problem is, this kid’s none of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he’s so goddamn pretty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai’s pretty sure he’s the one being taken advantage of here, even as he’s dragging the kid towards the back. He can’t break away long enough to lock the door but at least he’s got the presence of mind not to fuck a high-schooler in clear fucking view of anyone who wants to peek in the window. That’s about all he’s got, in terms of logistics. There’s a couch. Maybe they’ll use that. Seems like it’s up to the kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For now, Iwai concentrates on making this mistake to its fullest. It’s tempting as hell to rush, but he’s pretty sure this’ll go by too quickly no matter what, and he’s also pretty sure that’s not up to him. So he goes for one hand in the hair (that fucking hair, looks so soft, </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> so soft) and one on his hip. He’s gonna get his fucking fill, no goddamn doubt of that, but he’s shoving his hand down the back of the kid’s pants for a handful of that goddamn ridiculous ass. And it’s fucking soft, too, the skin’s smooth and it gives under his fingers so deliciously, gives in that way that makes him want to take.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid’s hands are roaming, like he wants a little bit of everything, loading his plate with just a bite from every dish at the buffet. Iwai’s hands are perfectly content where they are so he proceeds to the next thing to top his list of needs and ducks down to the kid’s neck. This is, he finds, a fantastic plan, because the kid’s not muffled by kisses anymore and when Iwai bites his neck he </span>
  <em>
    <span>whines</span></em><span>, which is not a noise Iwai ever thought he’d hear come out of him and a noise he very very much wants to hear again. The bite wasn’t hard, more of a nibble, and Iwai licks and sucks at the spot while the kid claws at his back, panting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai’s about to ask if it’s too much when the kid grabs the hem of his own shirt and tugs it up over his head. His glasses go flying, tangled in the fabric, and now those unfiltered eyes are burning through wild black hair and Iwai knows it’d be a stupid fucking question. He shrugs off his jacket (why the fuck did he always wear so goddamn many layers) and the kid helps him with the turtleneck, using barely enough care to keep from tearing it. His undershirt’s not so lucky but he doesn’t give a shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now they’re both bare from the waist up, another line barreled over. Iwai knows what he looks like (he’s not as cut as he was in his younger days but he’s no slacker, either, no dad bod, still firm and solid and coated with coarse hairs) and he’s much more interested in the kid. Kid’s - well, shit, kid looks fucking good. He’d always seemed kinda scrawny, but that was obviously part of the increasingly elaborate meek act. No, the kid has abs, and sleek lines, and the kind of heft you see in a jungle cat, streamlined and powerful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s a surprise, but it doesn’t stop Iwai. The scars do. They’re recent, oldest of ‘em can’t be more than a few months, and numerous, and varied. On his side, three gashes like he’d been clawed. A clean line across his clavicle, probably from a knife. A jagged one up the center of his chest - and that one’s not just recent, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>new, </span>
  </em>
  <span>pink and soft, fresh skin. He can’t even imagine what had made that mark, and it’s barely healed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Iwai stops. He holds the kid at arm’s length and asks, “What the hell happened to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s different. He doesn’t know why it’s different. He’s worried, suddenly, about this kid, about what he’s been up to, about why he’s been poking around a place like Untouchable and making such interesting friends. But it’s a different worry, less bright and sharp. It’s not, he realizes, somewhere in the back of his mind, in the parts that are capable of these thoughts, worry for a kid. Maybe it’s not even worry at all, maybe it’s just concern, because the kid can certainly handle himself. So when he looks up with those dark eyes and says, “Don’t worry about it,” Iwai believes it. He’s got scars too. And when he pokes it, a little hard, kid doesn’t flinch, so either it doesn’t hurt or it doesn’t matter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kid’s got his wicked little smirk and his dark hunter’s eyes, a face split into a challenge and a threat. Iwai takes the challenge (but the threat, oh, he’s gonna be thinking about the threat) and kisses him again and just like that it’s fucking boiling hot in here again. No need to rev himself back up. Hell, if anything, he’s even closer to blowing this before he even gets past the foreplay, so he grabs another handful of ass (because if he comes in his pants at least he’s gonna do it with his fingers digging in) and gets back to work. Kisses the kid’s neck a little lower, right at the curve, where there’s a chance of hiding the bruise. Fixes himself there, teeth pressing against the skin, tongue flicking over it, lips tight, because it’s making the kid squirm and that’s so, so nice. Iwai grinds his hips into the kid, digging for friction, and gets his knee between his legs again so the kid can hump against it helplessly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s nice to feel like the kid’s losing control. It’s fucking fantastic, actually, because Iwai’s completely aware that he’s got no say in anything that’s happening. The kid’ll stop him if he needs stopping, and move him along when it’s time for that, which means Iwai can take what he wants without fear, without consideration, without worrying about if it feels good. The kid’ll make it feel good. Iwai can lose himself in the sensation of a lithe, nimble body, the noises he’s making, the way he’s mindlessly rutting against his knee, the taste of his skin, his heat, his eyes. Goddamn, those eyes. Pretty as a switchblade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kid’s finally decided he’s had enough, because his hands quit feeling up Iwai’s back and drop to his waistband. Iwai pulls back, arches away just enough to open a space between their stomachs and let the kid at his belt buckle, which falls open so quick that he doesn’t even realize it’s gone until suddenly there’s nothing left between his cock and the kid’s stomach (which would look so, so good streaked with cum) except thin cotton. He likes these boxers, hopes they make out a little better than the undershirt, but it’s not a top priority.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid hooks a leg around Iwai’s waist and thrusts. Iwai grunts, thrusting back, because he can feel the kid’s cock hard against his own and goddamn it’s a good feeling. He could get off this way without even trying, and even though it’s not the way he wants this to end he’s grinding against the kid, panting into his shoulder, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>getting overridden by the </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span></em><span>. Besides, he knows the kid won’t let it happen this way, isn’t gonna let Iwai rub off against him. So he might as well let himself go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s right, because right about when he starts wondering if he isn’t and he’s picking up speed the friction disappears. Iwai swears under his breath and looks down to see what the fuck happened. The kid’s pushing him away with one hand, and the other’s digging into his pocket. It comes out with a familiar foil packet. Iwai wonders if he’s gonna want it just like this, up against the wall. He can do it, he thinks, he’s still pretty strong and it won’t be long, but his thighs would be killing him after and he’d rather have a position where he can get more leverage. Kid’s choice, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s pretty much resigned himself to it, but there’s one thing he’d like enough to ask for it. “Hey,” he says, “do me a favor? I’d love to see what you look like with my cock in your mouth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid looks at him, lifting an eyebrow. Maybe he’s surprised Iwai’s still got any illusion of control. But he smiles, soft and genuine for half a second before the wicked twist, and drops from between Iwai’s arms to his knees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai lays a hand on the kid’s head, reassurance that he’s not a gorgeous hallucination, as he tugs down the elastic of Iwai’s boxers and his cock finally falls out, thick and dark and heavy. For a second the kid pauses. Iwai’s being appraised. And he must look like he’s worth something, because the kid leans forward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ever sucked dick before?” Iwai asks, because he knows he’s not gonna be capable of speech soon. He’s not sure what answer he wants, or if he wants one at all. He’s imagined it plenty of times by himself, the kid’s first time, tentative at first but quickly getting hungry for it. He’s imagined, too, the kid on his knees, sucking someone off for money or whatever else he needs, pretty lips wet and swollen, pretty face dripping with drool and semen, those diamond sharp eyes blazing behind glasses streaked with white (he’s not sure where that came from, it’s not something he’d ever thought about before, but he want to come on the kid’s glasses). He knows better, now, though, knows the kid will never debase himself by kneeling for any reason unless he wants to. Which makes it all the sweeter that he’s on his knees now because Iwai asked for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kinda hopes the kid’ll be terrible at it. If he’s as good with his tongue as he is with those fingers, Iwai’s not gonna last. He weaves his own fingers through the kid’s hair. It flows, like silk, like water, like the heaviness of sunlight at dusk. Most of this pretty kid gets Iwai hot and bothered, but the hair’s like the eyes, almost incongruous, otherworldly. Magic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moment of awe is enough to back him off the edge. Seeing the kid pop the condom in his mouth shoots him right back onto it, though. Kid looks up at him, makes eye contact past the swell of Iwai’s own bare body, through the black silk hair. And he holds it while he leans forward, holds it while he guides the tip of Iwai’s cock between his lips, holds it while he slides down, hot and tight, and it’s the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever seen. Iwai almost ruins the condom before it’s fully on because the kid keeps going and listen, Iwai’s not a porn star but he’s not small either, and the kid doesn’t even pause until he’s got every inch of Iwai down his throat. And he looks up, and he blinks slowly, and he swallows once, and Iwai’s gonna have that image seared into his brain forever, he’s gonna be seeing it every time he blinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the kid backs off, and lets Iwai’s dick flop out of his mouth with a sloppy wet pop, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and says, “Was that good enough for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking hell,” Iwai groans. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kid seems a little surprised by that, but maybe that’s because Iwai feels like he’s gonna pass out. The kid’s back on his feet, kissing Iwai again, tastes like latex now but who gives a shit, and tugging at the back of Iwai’s neck. Iwai follows helplessly. What else can he do? He backs the kid up against something flat, and the kid slides back and sits, and Iwai’s got enough sense left to be glad he doesn’t have to lift him (this time, although fucking the kid rough and quick against the wall is very, very high on his to-do list) and also to wonder where his pants went because the legs hooking around his waist are bare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You bring lube too, Boy Scout?” Iwai asks, nuzzling against the kid’s neck between kisses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Already taken care of,” the kid pants back. And that’s a real interesting thing to say, because it doesn’t make any fucking sense. Iwai frowns and pushes away, makes the kid lean back onto the desk (ah, they’re at the work table, Iwai’s got him on the same table he’s imagined bending him over so many times, </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect</span></em><span>) and looks down. Kid’s got a nice dick, real nice, pretty and pink and hard against his stomach. Iwai’s gonna need to come back to that, though, because below that something’s glistening. And that is, specifically, where the sun don’t shine, so Iwai reaches a finger down between the kid’s legs. It’s wet, it’s fucking wet, the kid’s already soaking with lube, and there’s something there. Iwai presses against it - hard, angular - and the kid gasps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai hisses between his teeth. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He lets up, then presses again, and the kid’s gasp has a little edge to it this time. “Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> kidding me?” He’s somewhere between impressed and infuriated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take it out,” the kid mutters. He’s starting to show signs of wear now, fatigue or just loosening his grip, and his wicked grin’s a little tired. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai uses this. Because he can. Because he wants to be in control, for a few delicious seconds. Because the little shit’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>wearing a fucking buttplug at work.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You put this in here?” he asks, sliding it in a tiny circle, watching the kid shudder. “At my fucking store?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid’s breathing hard, but he’s got a little bit of that steely hunter’s glint back. “Of course not,” he answers. “That’d be inappropriate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai stops breathing, because the kid’s been here for hours. The kid’s had this in him for hours. He presses against it one last time, aware that his time’s up, and the kid sighs and slumps against him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Somebody’s confident,” he says. He’s praying the kid answers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he does, looking up, looking deadly. “It’s not like it’s the first time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iwai’s gotta close his eyes at that, take a deep breath, count to ten. He grabs the base of the thing and pulls slowly, gently, </span>
  <em>
    <span>slowly</span></em><span>, and the kid whimpers and holds onto his shoulders to stay upright. Then it pops out and Iwai’s holding a stainless steel buttplug, surprisingly hefty, with a fake jewel decorating the stem (real cute). He drops it, doesn’t care about the thud on his flooring, doesn’t care about the mess, because he’s got his hands firmly on the kid’s hips and he’s heaving him to the edge of the desk and getting him at the right angle and lining himself up and finally, finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span></em><span>, thrusts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid’s face is divine. Iwai doesn’t bother starting slow, couldn’t stand to, and the kid’s lips part as he struggles for air. Those eyes, those devilish eyes, go soft and wet and bright all at once, staring past Iwai out into something eternal. He’s not pretty anymore. He’s angelic, he’s the ecstasy of saints, he’s the kind of image artists wish they could use to portray heaven. Iwai can’t tear his eyes away. Fuck, he could be paralyzed from the waist down and still come from that face alone. He’s not, though, which means that while the kid’s face is transcendent, his ass is hot as hell and tight as prison. He’s the most gorgeous thing ever witnessed by human eyes up above; below, he’s getting fucked so hard the desk is rattling and things are falling to the floor and he’s got his legs wrapped high around Iwai’s waist urging him on, pulling him in, not that he needs the encouragement. Iwai’s putting everything he’s got into fucking the kid, driving into him as deep and hard as he can with every single thrust, losing all sense of caution, reduced to nothing but an animal instinct to seek pleasure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s when the kid’s eyes focus in again that Iwai manages to breathe. The hand on the back of Iwai’s neck curls, nails scraping against his scalp, and the other one’s digging into his bicep. Harder, the eyes say, he’s close, harder, faster, more. Iwai didn’t think he had any more to give but he finds something, some last little bit of power to burn and suddenly the kid’s clamping down around him and throwing his head back with a cry and squirting cum up his own belly, up his chest, and Iwai’s been stretched beyond his own limit so long that he snaps his hips up tight against the kid’s unfair ass and shouts, feeling the kid coming on his cock, feeling it shoot up his spine and explode in his chest and everything’s too bright and it’s all gone, there’s nothing, he’s ruined, it’s paradise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he’s back, in an aching body covered with sweat that just had sex with his underage employee. Said underage employee is still gasping, looking more lost than he’s ever seen him, and goes limp, slumped against Iwai’s chest. Iwai curses and grabs him, holds him, strokes his hair with one hand and his back with the other, murmurs soothing nonsense and praise, shudders. When he can, he pulls his limp dick out of the kid’s ass and the kid whines about it, which makes Iwai laugh. When he can, he carries the kid over to the couch and lowers him onto it. When he can, he stands up - except that part doesn’t happen because the kid latches on to him, doesn’t let him go. So Iwai sits, allows the kid to curl up next to him, practically on top of him, radiating a kind of cat-caught-the-canary smug contentment. Iwai’s gonna have to break that in a minute, because he’s gotta clean up. When he can, though, because right now a pretty kid is getting him into more trouble than he can handle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not more than he’s worth.</span>
</p>
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